


Forsaken But Not Hopeless

by BeaRyan



Series: Rare Pairs for Grey's Anatomy [4]
Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: Adultery, Angst and Porn, Breeding, F/M, Fix-It, Gender Roles, Hurt/Comfort, I didn't mean to ship it this hard, Kunt, Opril, Pregnancy Kink, Religion Kink, SMUTTY SMUT, paternity issues, traditional gender roles kink, what is this ship name and how is this the first fic for it?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 12:02:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6373996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeaRyan/pseuds/BeaRyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Part of her wants him to leave her alone with her misery.  Part of her is tired of feeling lonely."  Smutty, shippy fic for April and Owen.  Spoilers through 3/27/2016.  Fix-it for the latest Japril twist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forsaken But Not Hopeless

"I'm sorry," April mumbles into the phone. It's not how she likes to start a conversation, but it's the truth and Hunt's not one for nonsense. "I'm too drunk to drive and I can't find my purse so I can't pay a cab." 

"Where are you?"

She tells him and he comes. She knew he would. He's solid and reliable that way. Some would call him a walking disaster, a storm constantly on the edge of breaking, but she can count on him. He comes for her and he takes her home. Takes her keys and opens the door for her. 

She sits on the couch and waits while he gets her water and pretzels. He hands them to her and she eats them dutifully while sipping the water and watching him watch her. Part of her wants him to leave her alone with her misery. Part of her is tired of feeling lonely. She's been with people all day and so miserably alone it's as if she's surrounded by ghosts. They brush by her but never quite make contact. 

"So what happened?" he asks. "This isn't like you." 

She takes a sip of the water to buy time, then crosses the room and grabs the scotch and an old fashioned glass. She pours a shot into her water and then pours a double for Owen. 

"I had my support group for grieving parents this morning. Lunch. Therapy with Jackson. Sex with Jackson." 

She stops there. There are things she shouldn't say. Things between a woman and her husband and no one else. 

Jackson won't be her husband much longer. She can see the future coming at her and there's no way to stop it. 

She says, "I think he only slept with me because the therapist told him not to."

She takes a sip and tries to hide the tears welling in her eyes. "He wore a condom. We never do that. We used to want babies. I still want babies." 

Owen's glass is already empty and he refills it and drinks again. She can see the effort it takes for him to sip it instead of gulps. 

"Babies," he mumbles. "Yeah." 

"Yeah. Babies." She takes a gulp of the scotch and water and tries not to sputter, but it feels like the drink it fighting her. It feels like the entire universe, especially her soon to be ex husband, is fighting her all the time. "Tell me it will be OK. Tell me you still think you'll have children. I mean, you're divorced. I'm about to be divorced. How can you have babies when you're divorced?" 

She knows the mechanics of it of course. It's not exactly a complex process. The thing is, she doesn't want random babies. She wants a family with a loving father and husband taking an important role. She'll have her children on her own if she has to, but it's never been part of her plan. 

She'd had a plan. 

"How do you make a new plan when the old one falls apart?" she asks.

"Are you sure you need a new one?" 

She takes another sip and wishes he hadn't put so much water in her glass. It takes up room where she'd rather have more alcohol. She needs to cut away reality and sterilize the wound. 

"Therapy isn't working. I'm losing him. And with him I'm losing... my future. I had a plan for our family, and none of it has worked out."

She pours the contents of her glass down her throat, gulping the ice water with a hint of scotch and wishing it burned. She reaches for the bottle to pours herself a shot. It's emptier than she remembers. 

She takes a sip and feels the heat on her lips and then sliding down her throat. It burns and gives her a point of focus. She can get through this moment and the next and the next.

"How did you do it?" she asks Owen quietly. "You wanted your baby and didn't get to have him. It might have been fine, wonderful even, but she didn't want to wait and see and... How do you go on after that? How do you love your spouse when they push you to do something you don't want to do and you lose your child, your dream, because of it?" 

She sees Owen crumple then. It starts inside him and his body follows, leaning forward, protecting his vital organs. After a deep breath he empties his glass again and refills it. She's not sure what number drink he's on, but more half the bottle has disappeared since he walked through her door. 

"We didn't get over it, or at least I didn't. I let go of the dream and then I let go of her."

"How do you let go? How do you make your arms stop aching for the child that's not in them?" 

"There could be another partner, another chance," he says. After a pause he admits, "I've been stumbling for a while." 

He's beside her on the couch with the bottle in front of him on the coffee table. She holds up her glass and when he leans in to pour a shot for her he forgets to sit back up. His body rests against hers with easy familiarity. 

"I only date women who want children now. I did learn that lesson." 

She rests her head on his shoulder and the idea is the only thing clear in her mind after hours of drunken fog. 

"I want children," she says. "Beautiful, healthy, hearty red-headed babies."

His voice is treading the line between paternal and patronizing when he says, "There's a chance you'll get that with Avery."

"Not much of one."

She rests her hand on his thigh just above his knee and avoids his gaze. He likes to be the strong one. She wants him to be. She's tired of being strong and tired of throwing herself after someone who's walking away. 

His voice is barely more than a whisper and it's just her name.

She answers, "Big, healthy red-headed babies run in my family. I want one." She runs her nails over his pants, listening to the scratch of the fabric and feeling his muscles tense as her touch moves over his skin. "You could have one, too." 

"I'm only human, April. I have limits, desires, and you're approaching them." 

"We'd be good parents." She trails her fingers slightly higher on his thigh, stopping where the creases in his pants radiate out from his crotch. "We could do this. We actually like each other. We work well together. I've faced hell with you overseas and we got people past it. Together" Her hand stills and she finally looks him in the eyes. "You'd be a good father. You should be a father." 

She knows she's cheating, not just on her marriage but in the way she's manipulating Owen. She's told him the thing he most wants to hear. If it wasn't true she'd feel bad about it, but he's honorable and loyal and strong. He's what a child needs, what she needs, and so she says, "Not just a good father. You'd be a great dad." 

She's put a feast in front of a starving man, and his decision's made. His mouth descends on hers. From here on he's in charge, just like at work. Just like a man should be. All she has to do is be dutiful, to obey the silent commands of his body. It's easy when they both want the same thing. 

His hands are greedy, eager, and rough, and he tugs her t-shirt over her head without much ado and pushes her back on the couch. His hand is on her breast and his mouth covers hers and she's smothered by his body and his need. He needs this. He needs her and what she can give him. 

It's a relief to be wanted like this. The way he pulls and pushes at her isn't a claiming or a command from something below his belt. This isn't sexual need. It's deeper. This is instinctive, animal. This is a desire for the next generation, a need to pour your soul into another person and let it grow. This is what she's always wanted and what she was born to do. This is the woman her mother raised her to be. At work she cares for the needy and now she can finally, finally create another life and teach it the glory of God. 

The baby will have a father who knows the meaning of service, of being a servant. A father who craves him. That's why God took Samuel. Jackson never got on his knees and begged God to make his wife fruitful. Owen has cried to the Lord for a child. She's seen his pain. She can help answer his prayer and he can answer hers. 

She feels the rough scratch of stubble near her belly button and remembers that the road to motherhood has a biological side that can't be skipped. He needs to move in her. 

His fingers are clumsy as he tugs at the button on her pants, and she bites her lip to hide her smile. A man needs to feel like a man, competent and appreciated. He's a surgeon and she's seen those hands work miracles. Right now though, she's his miracle and he's in awe, a saint falling to the ground before a spectacle beyond his dreams. The way he wants this takes her breath away. She's seen desire on men, but never like this. 

Her pants are gone, tossed away and his face is buried between her legs, feasting. She's tempted to tell him he doesn't have to, that this isn't required for what she needs, but he's so desperate to please her there's no way she could deny him the chance to try. His fingers are inside her, collaborating with his mouth to coax her towards orgasm, and she doesn't know how to tell him she's only faked it since she found out Samuel was going to die. 

When she remembers that orgasm changes the PH of the vagina, making it more hospitable to sperm, she vows to try. She squeezes the fingers inside her, feeling the pressure, and wills herself to come. 

"Almost," she tells him. "Almost." 

"Tell me what to do." 

"Circles," she says. That's how she touched herself after she was married when she tried to be ready for her husband. Circles around the center of her pleasure so she could be wet and ready. A good wife. She'd tried to hard to be a good wife. 

Owen takes her command to heart. His tongue circles over her, his fingers circle inside her, the thumb of the hand clenching her hip draws circles there, too. She glances down the length of his still clothed body and sees his shoe moving round and round unconsciously. 

A laugh bubbles inside her, blessing him for his enthusiasm and thanking God for this moment, and the ripple of joy flows up and flushes her face with a smile. A sincere one. It's been too long. She can't stop the sound and doesn't even try. She's happy. She should make a joyful noise. The rest of her body joins in the celebration and this time when the muscles inside her clench it's an involuntary spasm of release. At last. 

It shouldn't surprise her that Owen knows how to move past the pain and bring her back to herself, but somehow it does. 

She's floating, peaceful and full of bliss at long last, but when she sees the hard set lines of Owen's face she remembers that for him that was just a first step. Now she's wet and he's ready. 

He unbuttons his pants, braces his foot on the end of the couch and shoves himself up the length of her. His pants are around his knees which are wedged between hers, and his face is level with hers. She can smell the liquor and herself on his breath. Their eyes meet briefly before he buries his head in her neck and kisses the delicate skin there. His kisses are gentle passes, but when she runs her hands over the muscles of his back she can feel the tension and control required to keep himself in check. 

"Don't make me wait any longer," she whispers, and she really doesn't care what it is that he thinks she's been waiting for. She's not even sure she knows herself. 

His grip on her thigh is firm and certain, and he quickly positions her in a way that satisfies him and plunges in. Her leg is higher on his hip than it was when she was with Jackson, nearly around his waist, and her calves are wrapped around his back. The word "cleave" comes to mind and she can't help but contrast this moment with all the times with Jackson. She's known the pleasures of the flesh, deep and sensual pleasures that took hours and left her skin flushed and tender. She's felt loved and even desired before, but she's never felt like the answer to a prayer. She's never felt anything that conjured Old Testament images of a world set against them and the two of them braced against the storm side by side. This isn't the Song of Solomon. This is Deuteronomy. The old ways. 

Now she understands why her friends in college mocked the old paperback romance novels she hid in her closet and called them anti-feminist drivel. This is what it means to be claimed and taken. 

If there's sensual pleasure in this for him it's not evident on his face. Most of the time his head is buried in her neck or tightly pressed against hers, cheek to cheek and out of sight, and when she does get a glimpse of him all she can see is need. She can feel it, and it makes her soul ache. He needs this, needs a child, needs her. She can soothe the pain at the center of his soul that he thought was just his to tend for eternity. She can bring comfort and healing to a good man. 

His movements are tight and raw and precise, a surgeon with a goal. He knows what needs to happen. Despite his familiarity with the procedure there's nothing casual about his approach. He's in control and she's under his authority with no duties but to support him in his. 

She kisses the tight tendon that runs from his neck across the top of his shoulder and the whimper she hears in response feels like a cut. She can't recall anyone being gentle with Owen. You don't tend to a grenade; you just get out of its way and let it do its job. 

Her hand runs down his back, and there's no scrape of her nails or clenching. She squeezes him to her and he lets the weight of his chest fall on hers even as his hips continue to move. When he says her name it sounds like a cry for salvation, the sound you make alone in the dead of night when all seems to have been lost. She's felt God come to her in those moments. Not every time, but often enough to know it's real, and when Owen says her name again she knows just how he feels. 

He's straining, holding back, and that's not what she wants for him. For them.

She threads her hand in his hair and whispers. "Throb and swell with joy." Maybe he knows the passage she's misquoting, maybe not, but he gets the idea. 

His hands, still strong and sure, pull her in tightly and he presses as close as he can get. He doesn't shiver or quiver or anything so ridiculously unmanly and worldly. He pulses and throbs deep within her, planting his seed like a man who knows how to cultivate the earth and a family, and her body responds like it was designed to do, trembling with awe and joy while drawing him in. Clenching, cleaving, and taking hold of him and what he has to offer to her and their future, she comes and comes undone. 

He realizes she's crying before she does. 

He pulls away and he's fastening up his pants as he talks. "Dammit, April. I'm sorry. So sorry." He looks remorseful and she doesn't figure out what's happened until she brushes the hair out of her eyes and feels the tears on her cheeks. It takes another moment to figure out that they're hers. 

"We were drunk," he says. "We made a mistake. A big one. It's only going to hurt Jackson if you tell him, but if you feel you have to, blame me. I can take it." 

"Owen," she begins, but he cuts her off. The way he holds her face is a command for stillness and she obeys.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have taken advantage of your weakness."

The part of her that's "modern" and "liberated" wants to tell him that he's ridiculous and he needs to take his caveman sentiments back to the mountains, but the woman who held onto her virginity for almost three decades feels understood and absolved. This is what Jackson never accepted and certainly never said. 

A good man doesn't let a good woman go astray. They keep each other on the righteous path, and when they fail it is, of course, a shared failure, but he was supposed to lead her. 

Owen pulls the blanket off the back of the couch and spreads it over her, hiding her nakedness. His hands tuck in the fabric around her, protecting her. For a few seconds he slips and caresses her through the fabric. "How much trouble have I made for you?" 

She stares at him blankly. Owen's told her not to tell Jackson, and so she won't, and her marriage was already failing anyway. The house was already on fire. At most he's left the Sunday paper on the steps. It's a little more to burn but there's no real difference because of it. At least now she feels like she can salvage her dreams for the future from the ashes of her marriage. "Jackson and I were already headed for divorce. I don't need to tell him this for it all finish falling apart." 

"But you are still married. As of right now, you are, and a pregnancy would be... awkwardly timed. A blessing but..." He closes his eyes and she can feel his pain. He knows how she feels about abortion, knows that she wouldn't, but he's been so close to happy before. "Where are you in your cycle? What are the odds you're pregnant?" 

She mentally counts up the days and says, "We're too early. It would take a miracle." 

XXX

Weeks later Owen waits until they're alone to congratulate her on the pregnancy. He's radiantly happy, smiling in a way that's too rare, and when he uses the word miracle she wonders if he suspects. Even she doesn't know for sure. In six more months she'll either have a big, healthy red headed baby or she won't. It's in God's hands now.

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, what is their ship name? Team Trauma is the friendship, but what's the shippy ship name? Un'beta'd, so if there are any typos or redundancies ruining the flow please let me know. Actually, any comments would be appreciated. This is a crickety fandom and it kind of freaks me out.


End file.
